


A final knife to the heart

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gore, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mixed perspective, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Not Canon Compliant, References to Torture, Your OTP isn't monogamous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2760887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first loss of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but not the last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A final knife to the heart

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. This falls within my [Russingon arc](http://archiveofourown.org/series/121242) in which [Gelmir was a lover of Fingon](http://archiveofourown.org/tags/Fingon*s*Gelmir/works).   
> 1\. This story bends canon (further) in that here, Gelmir is not beheaded before the company of Fingon, but instead mutilated and left to die.

The tumult of battle had descended so quickly that it didn’t yet register for Fingon that he had sounded the charge, or that his sword was already wet with blood. The ferocity of the attack led by Gwindor and the elves of Nargothrond had temporarily taken the enemy by surprise, and just now they had retreated. Fingon turned his eyes once more to the east, gritting his teeth against doubt. 

_Where is Maitimo?_

Turning resolutely back, he scanned the battlefield. Not too many fallen, not yet. But one…one casualty, already. One, whose mutilation had lit a desperate fire in Gwindor’s eyes and wrenched a horrible cry from the captain of Nargothrond’s throat.

One that Fingon recognized. 

And he swung down from his horse and strode to that fallen, bloodied figure.

“Gelmir,” he whispered.

 

-

 

_I am dreaming_ , Gelmir thought, lightheaded from pain and loss of blood. Certainly the world had a dreamlike quality to it. The light – so brilliant, so bright, even in the shadow of Angband, pulsed surreally against his wrecked eyes. They had put out his eyes, but badly, in their haste, and though shrouded in a haze of blood, he could make out shapes growing more distinct. Then too, there was his inability to move his hands and feet – was that not always the terror of dreams, that horrible, creeping paralysis? 

But most of all, he knew he must be dreaming because there was a figure kneeling beside him, an armored figure removing his high, plumed helm, and gold flashed in the weak sunlight as his dark braids fell free. And those eyes – warm and blue and looking into his – he knew those eyes, even through a red mist. 

With a heavy tongue and a throat cracked by screams, he whispered, “My king.”

 

-

 

Fingon took in the broken body of the elf before him. Even had his limbs not been roughly hacked away – he choked back a surge of bile and old fear at the echoes of another bleeding stump – Gelmir’s body was broken and emaciated, scarred from long misuse, withered and pale from malnutrition and lack of sunlight. 

He was utter ruin; there was no hope for him.

Without a second thought, Fingon took him into his arms.

 

-

 

Strong arms were tight around him, and Gelmir closed his eyes, long-ago memories crowding back. The craftsmen of Morgoth – for so they were called, those technicians of pain – had tried to drive all that was good and joyful from their prisoners’ minds, and they had indeed been meticulous and precise in their efforts. But still, when he slept, Gelmir would sometimes dream of the prince he had loved, the king he had worshipped, the memory of strong hands and merry laughter and a warm body beside his. 

Everything was so cold, now. 

His head dropped sideways against Fingon’s breast, against the cold, hard steel of his armor. But warm hands, mail gloves stripped away, were brushing the hair from his face, and warm lips were pressed to his brow. 

“Gelmir, my guard. How brave you have been.”

 

-

 

He could tell that Gelmir was trying to speak, but his skin was a ghastly, deadly grey. Fingon had seen such coloring, too many times; knew its promise. He had seen it on his soldiers, choking out their last breaths on the battlefield. He had seen it after Thangorodrim, when they’d reached the healer’s tent almost too late, Maedhros more than half gone and dead white from loss of blood. 

Gelmir was losing blood from four times as many wounds as Maedhros had been. 

“Hush,” he murmured now, his lips at Gelmir’s brow. Two of his guards had taken up position by him, backs to him as they kept that brief, bloody circle protected from the view of the enemy. “Don’t try to speak. I am here, Gelmir, I have you.” 

Gelmir moved restlessly in his arms, and the blood flowed inexorably from his wounds. Fingon cast about for something to use as a tourniquet – four tourniquets – but even as he did, he knew it was in vain. 

Gelmir’s lips, white and cracked, parted. “Please.” 

Fingon bent low over him, still holding him close to his chest. “What is it?” 

“ _Please_.”

 

-

 

Gelmir knew he had to speak, one last time. 

One last request of his king. 

“Sire – ”

“Fingon,” Fingon whispered, his voice breaking.

Gelmir smiled. It took all the strength he had. “Fingon. I beg of you…”

“Anything.” 

Gelmir stared up into those blue eyes, listening to that fair voice cracked with grief, the voice that had sung out over the Ice and had made him fall in love with his prince, all those many years ago. 

“…end it.”

Fingon looked down on him, and Gelmir felt hot tears fall on his bloodied face. 

_He does not wish to_ , thought Gelmir, and smiled again, despite it all.  _But he is very brave, my king._

“Anything,” said Fingon again, and he slipped his dagger from its sheath and pulled Gelmir close, one last time.

 

-

 

The guards looked around as their king stood up from the frail, battered body. There was no life left in it, now. They lowered their eyes as Fingon spread his cloak – blue and silver, with the crest of Fingolfin – over the fallen elf. 

Then he turned to them, his armor stained with blood, and his hands too, they noticed; his face wet with tears. But his eyes –

His eyes glowed white with fury. 

“Did he say anything, sire?” asked one of the guards, the bolder one. 

“Yes,” said Fingon, and he settled his helmet back over his head, his eyes shining eerily below its high plume. 

“What?”

“He asked for one last knife to the heart,” said Fingon, and swung himself back onto his horse.

They exchanged glances, still rather fearful before their king, who blazed so brightly before them.

“And now, sire?” 

“Now?” Fingon turned to the black peaks of Angband, his back to the horizon. “Now we kill them all.”


End file.
